


First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage

by amfiguree



Series: with a dog and a white picket fence [1]
Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cook's never been a milestone kind of guy. But there are always exceptions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Comes Love, Then Comes Marriage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jehane18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane18/gifts).



> Written for the lovely, patient, ridiculously generous , who bid on me during the charity auction forever and a day ago. Almost half a year later, it's finally done, and more than twice the length it was intended to be. Thank you for being so amazing, Jay, and so sweet, and for having such a big, big heart. I hope you like this.

Cook's never been a milestone kind of guy. It's too restrictive any way you look at it; you're either using society's standards as a benchmark of importance, or setting the ceiling for the definition of "historical event" in your life.  
  
But then it's a month and seventeen days after his first Grammy win for Album of the Year - a month and sixteen days after he wakes up in his hotel suite with the hangover from hell, completely naked and Archie tucked up against him, his mouth bruised and his shirt torn in two places - and Cook's sitting in the doctor's office, alone, his hands curled into tight fists around the pregnancy stick he's just been handed. Cook stares at it.  
  
"Uh," he says, eventually.  
  
The doctor shows off all her teeth when she smiles at him, and tucks an errant blonde curl back behind her ear.  
  
"If I can't--"  
  
She smiles in what Cook assumes is supposed to be a reassuring fashion. "Just relax, and give yourself some time to become stimulated. Performance anxiety is pretty common, especially amongst first time fathers. We also provide magazines to in case you need any assistance."  
  
"Uh," Cook says. "So I should probably--"  
  
She nods, still smiling. "You'll want to aim before you fire."  
  
And Cook's not trying to be pessimistic here, but he's pretty sure this is going to constitute a huge fucking milestone in his life, longevity be damned.  
  
  
  
It takes Cook a week to work up the nerve to call his mom to break the news.  
  
To her credit, she doesn't even seem surprised. She's only silent long enough for him to wonder if this is the moment he's going to be disowned before she says, "How far along are you?"  
  
"Seven, eight weeks," Cook says, as he stifles a sudden smile, because of course she's going to be _practical_ about all this.  
  
"And everything's okay? You're both healthy?"  
  
"Yeah," Cook says, tripping over the word. _Both_ is still such a huge damn concept. "Yes. The doc said everything checks out."  
  
"Have you freaked out yet?"  
  
Cook manages a laugh, weak but real. "I'm working up to it."  
  
His mom goes quiet again. Then, "Whose is it?"  
  
"Uh," Cook hears himself say, completely thrown.  
  
"Is it Neal's?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Andy's?"  
  
"What-- _Mom_!" Cook shakes himself when he realizes his mouth is twisted, lemon-sour. " _No_!"  
  
"Oh, thank _god_ ," she says. "You know I love those boys, but there is no way they would be ready for this. I don't even want to think about how you'd have to deal with the fallout, and--"  
  
"It's Archie's," Cook interrupts, past the sudden clench in his chest. "We were at the Grammys last month, and--things got out of hand."  
  
There's a second of static, then another that stretches into more. "Have you told him?" his mom asks, eventually. Even over the phone, her voice sounds hushed.  
  
Cook doesn't reply.  
  
Slowly, she adds, "Are you going to?"  
  
Cook wets his lips, knots his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt so he can rest his knuckles against his stomach, warm and cautious. "I don't know."  
  
"Okay," his mom says, after a moment. "You call anytime you need me."  
  
Cook dips his head, presses his face into his sleeve. God, he doesn't deserve her. "I will," he says, when he can breathe again, and it's only a little shaky. "Thanks, ma."  
  
"Don't be silly, honey," she chides, and it doesn't take Cook much to picture her smile.  
  
"Love you," Cook says.  
  
"I love you too," she says. "But David?" She sounds grave all of a sudden, so solemn that Cook's throat tightens. "Remember fifth grade? When I sat you down to have the talk? You could've just told me the birds were unnecessary--"  
  
Cook groans and hangs up.  
  
  
  
One new text message.  
  
 _Pain in the ass:  
dude why did mom just rope me into shopping for baby clothes?_  
  
  
  
It's a whole month and twenty-five days after he tells Archie, quietly, "hey, man, I know last night wasn't--are we still cool?"; a whole month and twenty-five days after Archie pulls the covers up to his chin, awkwardly, looks down at his knees and smiles without meaning it as he says, "Yeah. Yes, Cook, of course. We - we're cool."; it's a whole month and twenty-five days without phone calls or texts or tweets before Cook calls him.  
  
The phone rings for-fucking-ever, and Cook feels the hair on the back of his neck stand as he rehearses his speech, runs his tongue over the back of his teeth as he replays exactly what he's going to say in his head. He's going to ease them both into it, start with one of the awful coconut jokes Archie never finds funny, work his way towards bringing up the night of the Grammys, and then _ever-so-casually_ \--  
  
"Cook?"  
  
"So I'm kind of having your baby."  
  
...So much for the rehearsed speech.  
  
  
  
"Oh my gosh," Archie exclaims, half an hour later, voice still small and tinny on the other end of the line. "But we were - I didn't--"  
  
"Uh," Cook says, remembers Archie above him, eyes glassy-dark, lips parted, fingers digging hard into his hips, his arm, whispering, "is this - am I--"; remembers clenching his jaw, his fists, his stomach, white sparks exploding behind his eyelids as he moaned, "yeah, yeah, just-- _fuck_ \--" and blows out a long breath. "Yeah, Archuleta, pretty sure you did."  
  
(And it's not like -- Cook's been over it too, gone back and forth a million times, calculated time zones and venues and random hook-ups, but, sad as it sounds, the life of a rock and roll star isn't as promiscuous as Neal would have people believe, and Archie's really the only person it could be.)  
  
There's complete silence on the other end of the line, and despite himself, something twists in Cook's chest. Fucking hormone therapy. "Listen," he says, evenly, "I only called you so you wouldn't be blindsided by some crazy reporter three months down the road. I know you're touring right now, and I'm not expecting you to--"  
  
"I'll be there tomorrow," Archie interrupts.  
  
"--give up your - what?"  
  
"I'd be there sooner," Archie says, apologetically, "I just - I have to pack my bags and let my manager know about switching dates and stuff." He pauses for a second, then adds, "It's, um, it's gonna be okay, Cook," before hanging up.  
  
Cook spends the next couple of minutes listening to the dial tone, blinking hard, till the burn at the back of his eyes subsides.  
  
  
  
Archie shows up at Cook's doorstep exactly twenty-two hours after Cook makes the call. He looks--good, Cook realizes, tired and a little apprehensive, maybe, but also determined and, just - _good_. He has a duffel bag in one hand and a carton of milk in the other, a haphazard red bow tied around it, and he's shuffling his feet as he says, "Um, hi."  
  
"Hey," Cook says, and watches as Archie's eyes flick down to his stomach, then back up again.  
  
"Um," Archie repeats. "Sorry, I'm not - after your call, I just -- I came here right away so I didn't think about, like, hotels and stuff, but I can totally go if--" He stops, then, seems to shake himself as he takes a deep breath. "I mean, is it okay if I crash at your place tonight?" He raises the carton a little sheepishly. "I brought a present and everything."  
  
Just like that, Cook feels the awkwardness vanish. (On his part, at least; he's pretty sure Archie's going to be awkward for pretty much the rest of his life.)  
  
"Well," Cook says, mouth twitching involuntarily. "I mean, since you got me _milk_ and everything, I guess that'd be okay with the thirteen other people taking up my guestrooms."  
  
"Oh my gosh, _shut up_ ," Archie says, already flushed. "Milk is totally good for you."  
  
"Yes, mom," Cook says, and reaches for him, grinning in earnest now. "Come on, man, where else did you think you'd be staying? Get your ass in here, Archuleta."  
  
  
  
The rest of the night goes--well, it goes as well as can be expected, Cook supposes, under the circumstances.  
  
He half-assumes Archie's going to skirt the actual issue at hand, maybe talk about damage control, publicity, what to do with the rest of the tour, but it turns out that, in the few years they've fallen out of touch, Archie's actually--changed. Matured, maybe, as if he hadn't been wise beyond his years already, before.  
  
"And - you're okay with this?" Cook says, cautiously. He's wrapped his hands around his glass of water, just to give them something to do. "I mean, I know we didn't discuss any of this, so you don't have to feel obligated to stay. This is potentially - probably - life-changing, so I get it if you don't want to--"  
  
"No," Archie interrupts, earnestly. "No, Cook, I do. If -- we're keeping it, right? I didn't want to just, you know, _assume_ , but when you called, um, I sort of guessed you'd decided, and - I'm, if you have, I'd really like to stay."  
  
Cook thinks about the phone call, the way Archie had volunteered to be here, barely any hesitation at all. "Yeah," he manages to say, and it comes out almost evenly. "I - that would be -- yeah." His fingers are practically vibrating against the side of his mug. "And your parents don't mind?"  
  
"Oh," Archie says, "They didn't want to assume anything, either. So they said I could take a few weeks off to, um, to get you settled? And that we'd take it a step at a time."  
  
Off Cook's look Archie adds, quietly, "They're - it's been different, I guess. Sort of. Since the divorce."  
  
"Oh," Cook echoes, and immediately feels like a jackass. It's like there's a new wall between them, all these things they've never said, this foreign wave of uncertainty. "Yeah, I heard about that. Hey, man, I'm really sorry."  
  
"It's okay," Archie says, meaning it. "It's been okay. I should maybe call them, though? If - I mean, to let them know I'm going to be staying?"  
  
  
  
Cook spends the entire time Archie's on the phone in front of the TV, channel-surfing with the volume turned up, pretending he isn't wishing he could hear exactly what Jeff Archuleta has to say.  
  
  
  
It only takes two minutes after Archie disappears into the guestroom for the night for Cook to give up any pretense of interest in what's on TV. It only takes twenty more minutes to crack him.  
  
He finds Archie upstairs, unpacking his duffel (surprise, surprise).  
  
Cook lingers in the doorway for a moment, watching him. It's strange; five years ago, he would've been in that bed, ruining Archie's methodological folding with bad jokes and exaggerated sexcapades (he still remembers that night in Manila, Archie flailing so hard he'd almost taken out Cook's eye with his mango).  
  
He stays exactly where he is, only smiles when Archie looks up and sees him there.  
  
"Hey," he says. "How'd it go?"  
  
"Good," Archie says, nodding. "They were really supportive and stuff, and, um, my mom told me that she'd ship us, like, twenty thousand books on pregnancy if we needed them, and my dad talked a lot about taking responsibility and emotional support and stuff, even though I don't - he isn't totally happy with me living in a den of s--um, I mean-- oh my gosh, quit laughing at me!"  
  
Cook hides another badly-disguised snort in his fist. Some things, at least, never change.  
  
"You can always tell him you're only going to be here for a couple of weeks," he says. "I know I'm pregnant now, but I promise to try to rein in my hormones for at _least_ that long."  
  
Archie frowns. "A couple of weeks?"  
  
Cook hadn't been expecting _that_ to be Archie's point of contention, but-- "Yeah," he says. "I mean, I appreciate you coming down for me, man, but you have a tour to get back to, and fans, and--okay, _whoa_."  
  
And suddenly Cook goes from standing to folded on his knees, one hand curled around his stomach and the other clenched in Archie's shirt, dizzy and shaking, feeling like his insides are staging a mutiny, determined on becoming outsides, and oh _god_ , this baby is going to fucking _kill him_ , fucking morning sickness in the middle of the fucking night--  
  
Then a trashcan is shoved beneath him, and there's a gentle, steady hand on his back, and mouthwash and a warm towel ready for him, after, and impressively, amazingly, _Cook doesn't die_. He looks up at Archie in a combination of awe and surprise once the churning in his gut has settled, and sees the corner of Archie's mouth curve, just a little, as he says, "Claudia's had two kids in the last three years. I, um, I've picked up a couple of things."  
  
"Oh," Cook says, cleverly.  
  
"Cook," Archie says, on a sigh. "You're - you kind of shouldn't be alone right now, and some things are more important than the fans, or the tour, or -- um. So. You should worry about you, for now, and let me take care of everything else."  
  
"Archie--"  
  
"No," Archie says, firmer than the time they'd asked if he would talk about Jeff the stage dad, than the time they'd asked if he'd ever resented being the Idol runner-up, firmer than Cook's ever heard him. "I'm not going anywhere, okay. I'm just not."  
  
Cook opens his mouth to object, and Archie adds, hastily, "But, um, if - if you don't want - I mean, I don't have to be--I could call your mom?"  
  
Cook's startled into laughing, then, and just like that, the battle's over before it even really begun. "Jesus, Archuleta," he wheezes. "You win, okay? Don't you think it's a little early to be bringing out the heavy artillery?"  
  
"What?" Archie protests. "What are you--oh my gosh, what is so _funny_?"  
  
  
  
All it takes to get Archie moved in is a couple of phone calls.  
  
At least, that's the story Archie's selling.  
  
Cook doesn't buy it for a second.  
  
Rescheduling studio time had been difficult enough for him; he can't even imagine the hell of having to cancel _months_ of tour dates. But he keeps an eye out on the tabloids, waiting to hear about scandals and outrage and disappointed fans shrieking protests, but then it's the end of the week, and Archie's almost completely moved in, and the only thing that's been published is a small side article about Archie needing a break after possibly straining his vocal chords.  
  
Even the online commotion is minimal, mostly fans speculating on the cause of the strain, the extent of the damage.  
  
"I'm impressed," Cook admits, one night, as he watches Archie whip up a batch of what he promises are "totally the best pregnancy cookies ever".  
  
Archie smiles up at him, and Cook catches himself grinning back. "I told you," Archie says (and, although it would sound smug on anyone else, on Archie it just sounds... _sure_ ), "I'm totally taking care of it."  
  
This time, Cook doesn't need any convincing.  
  
  
  
It helps that getting used to Archie, to the idea of having someone else in what used to be private, personal space, isn't as hard as Cook thinks it should be. It's not _exactly_ like it used to be, but they slip into an easy rhythm  
  
(they take turns in the kitchen for a while, till they figure out that Archie makes better sushi and Cook makes better steak; they swap pointers on songwriting, tweak bridges and lyrics in the studio Cook's installed in the basement; they play Scrabble - till Archie's good enough to challenge Cook's words - and Monopoly - till Cook's crafty enough to be able to give up his $5000 handicap)  
  
and the novelty of it all - of having a roommate, because Cook isn't sure he's ever going to get used to the fact that he's having a _baby_ \- soon wears off, gives way to boredom and frustration and panic of the _oh my fucking god, my career is over_ variety.  
  
As if that isn't enough to deal with, Dr. Harless puts him on a new estrogen pill that she thinks might help with the morning sickness.  
  
It doesn't.  
  
What it _does_ do, though, is throw his sleeping cycle completely out of whack.  
  
Which isn't even all that new, really; he's always been kind of an insomniac, the result of one too many nights spent sleeping beside Andrew's cot as a child, and then, later, of jerking awake from fitful nightmares, hearing "we did all we could for Adam, but--" chiming over and over in his head.  
  
At least before, he'd have alcohol to dull the edge, but now? Archie just throws all his beer out, and his caffeine, barely even looks up from his laptop when he takes the can of Heineken Cook tries to sneak into his bedroom, and Cook rolls his eyes and has to resist storming off like a three-year-old _child_. He doesn't even think about leaving the house (because going stir crazy is still preferable to being mauled by the damn paparazzi), but Christ on wheels, there are only so many times you can read the dictionary or do backdated crossword puzzles in the New York Times or watch re-runs of Leno and old-school infomercials before you _actually_ go stir crazy.  
  
"Hey," Archie says, as he pops his head into Cook's room one night. "I was wondering if, um," he pauses then, frowning. "Or - I can come back later? If you're busy?"  
  
"No, no," Cook says, hastily tossing the newly-made sock-puppets over his shoulder. "What's up?"  
  
"I know the pills are making you all, like, crazy and stuff - um, I mean -- not in a bad way or anything, but, so I thought maybe we could do something together tonight? If you wanted?"  
  
"Oh my god, _yes_ ," Cook says, already standing. "What did you want to do?"  
  
"Oh," Archie says. "Um. I hadn't thought that far ahead."  
  
Despite himself, Cook grins. "I have an idea."  
  
  
  
"Um?" Archie says, later, as Cook spreads all 11 seasons of M*A*S*H out over his bed sheet.  
  
"You said you'd never seen this before," Cook tells him, gravely. "I can't let the other father of my child be without basic cultural knowledge."  
  
They stay up watching Season 1 till 3.30 in the morning, and Cook doesn't even realize he's fallen asleep till he wakes up to the clock blinking _12:08_ and the indent in the space on the bed beside him reminding him that he didn't spend the night alone.  
  
It's... something Cook thinks he could get used to.  
  
  
  
Marathoning M*A*S*H lasts them close to two weeks.  
  
But then it's the night after, and Cook's alone in his room. He isn't ready the first time it happens, too caught up debating between starting a new crossword puzzle, playing solitaire on his laptop, or doing both simultaneously. So when his stomach hiccups, he doesn't think much of it, just presses his hand to his abdomen as he winces, and tries to remember if he's taken his pills.  
  
Then it happens again, that unpredictable _jolt_ , and shock steals the breath from his lungs as he realizes--  
  
"Arch!" Cook yells, palm burning against his skin. " _David_!"  
  
Archie stumbles in a second later, almost tripping over his pajama bottoms. At any other time, Cook would find that endearing. Right now, he can barely make himself look up from his belly. "Oh my gosh, what--"  
  
"I just felt a kick," Cook interrupts. His voice comes out scratchy.  
  
Archie's eyes go wide. " _Cook_ \--" He cuts himself off when Cook grimaces, and scrambles onto the bed with his palm outstretched. Cook grabs it with his free hand, pulse racing somewhere in his throat as he positions it, shudders at the heat in their contact.  
  
When it happens again, Cook sees it register on Archie's face almost before he feels the kick himself. Sees the same heart-stopping _wonderment_ he feels unfurling in his chest.  
  
"Can I stay?" Archie asks, voice so low it's barely even a whisper.  
  
"Yes," Cook says, as he chokes on a sob, forces a laugh when he adds, "Yeah. We can log onto the Idol forums and post shit about Johns."  
  
They move most of Archie's stuff into Cook's bedroom in the morning.  
  
  
  
One new text message.  
  
 _Pain in the ass:  
...why the hell are people calling in to ask me about michael johns' underwear fetish?_  
  
  
  
They must be doing something right, Cook thinks, a couple of days after him and Archie start sharing beds, because Cook shifts back to normal sleeping hours again, and the nausea even starts to reside a little, and he wakes up every morning to too-cold toes and two pairs of hands on his belly, like the baby's very own makeshift cradle, so overall things are definitely on the up-and-up, in his book.  
  
The streak doesn't last long.  
  
 _Obviously_.  
  
They have an ultrasound scheduled for his sixteenth week, and Cook's nervous the entire morning. Archie just smiles at him, patiently, and listens to him rant about how they've been doing everything right, he hasn't had a beer in _four months_ , Jesus, of course the baby's going to be perfect, and lets him change his mind about what he wants for breakfast four times without complaint (cornflakes, bread, pancakes, and waffles, in turn).  
  
Cook would hate how fucking put-together Archie is, except he catches the way Archie's hands are shaking as he reaches for the car keys, so he cuts him some slack.  
  
"Nice to see you again, David," Dr. Harless says, when he steps into her office. "And I see you've brought your..."  
  
She trails off, and Cook is momentarily distracted from the huge machinery currently sharing his personal space by the silence that ensues. "Oh," Cook says. "My, uh--"  
  
"Um," Archie adds, helpfully.  
  
"Roommate," Cook offers, after another long pause.  
  
"Ah," Dr. Harless says, and Cook makes a mental note to send her a fruit basket when she doesn't push for details, merely turns another blinding smile on him and gestures for him to lie back on the examination table.  
  
"The baby started kicking a couple of weeks ago," Cook adds, as he complies. "I mean, is that normal? We were talking to my mom this morning, and she said it's kind of early for that to be happening so regularly."  
  
"That's perfectly normal," Dr. Harless says, with another smile. "The fetus usually starts moving at about two months, but women have wombs that are, shall we say, a little more elastic, so they tend to notice the movements a little later."  
  
"Movement is good though, right?" Archie asks. It sounds almost anxious. "It means the baby's healthy?"  
  
"Movement is _fantastic_ ," Dr. Harless says, with a nod. "You can breathe now, David."  
  
Cook exhales, grins when he hears Archie laugh a little, beside him. "Sorry," he says. "We've never done this before."  
  
"Don't worry about it," Dr. Harless says, patting his shoulder reassuringly as she pulls out the gel. "I love working with first-time parents. Now brace yourself, because this might be a little cold."  
  
And it _is_ , it's fucking _freezing_ , but Cook barely has time to protest before she goes on, croons, gently, "There we go. There you are."  
  
Cook sees nothing but black and white blobs on the display screen.  
  
Then something moves, something _moves_ , and Dr. Harless says, hushed, "And that's the heartbeat."  
  
Cook can't see anymore, tears a sudden glass curtain drawn over his line of sight, but he hears Archie breathe, "Oh my gosh," at the same time he does, and he gropes blindly for Archie's hand, feels Archie's pulse stampeding against his fingers, twin to his own.  
  
"Do we want to know the baby's sex?" Dr. Harless asks, after a second.  
  
"No," Archie says, when Cook doesn't, and oh, thank God he can read Cook's mind.  
  
"Okay," Dr. Harless says, and spares Cook a smile that speaks volumes before wiping the gel off and helping Cook up. "Everything looks good, so I'm going to have you up your estrogen intake like we scheduled. I know you said the nausea's stopped for a while, but there's a possibility that this will bring it back."  
  
Archie sighs as Cook laughs, shaky but resigned. "Of course."  
  
  
  
"I'm sorry," Archie says, later that evening, and Cook can hear the wince in his voice without even looking up from where his cheek is pressed up against the side of the bath tub, gloriously cool against his skin. He sounds completely guilt-stricken, and Cook almost laughs, because Archie _would_ apologize, and of course he'd do it four months in.  
  
Instead, Cook thinks about that afternoon, the sonogram tucked in his back pocket, and squeezes Archie's hand, briefly, even manages a smile as he lifts his head. "I'm not."  
  
Spending the better part of the next hour throwing up what feels like everything he's ever eaten in his life (Archie's hands rubbing warm circles over his back, voice slow and soothing in his ear the whole time) doesn't change the sentiment.  
  
Much.  
  
  
  
Then Cook gets the call from Neal. It shouldn't be a big deal - they'd already agreed that a time-out over the break would be good for them, both individually and as a group - but with the extended hiatus, Neal and Andy have both started working on solo stuff, and Kyle's spending his down-time on an around-the-world vacation with Nicole and Hayden, and Cook--well.  
  
Cook's here.  
  
"Dave," Neal's saying, when Cook starts paying attention again. "David, man, should I play you the fucking demo or what?"  
  
Cook pauses longer than he probably should before he says, "Yeah, sure. Send it over."  
  
Neal hangs up on him with a disgusted snort.  
  
Archie has to spend a particularly long time that night coaxing Cook out of getting a coffee and into a cup of soy milk instead.  
  
(Neal doesn't call for two weeks after that, and when he does, he says, "I'm gonna be the bigger man here and move past this because you're pregnant, but just so you know, you're a motherfucking douchebag."  
  
"Yeah," Cook says, trying - and failing - to keep the relief out of his voice. "Like I haven't heard that one before.")  
  
  
  
One new text message.  
  
 _Pain in the ass:  
i hear you're practically house-broken these days. congratulations._  
  
  
  
At twenty weeks, Cook starts to show.  
  
And it's not -- he's not a small guy, by any means, and he knows that, but this is different. That was a choice. This... well. This isn't.  
  
He never leaves the house anymore, can't in case a rogue photographer catches him in the car, or, Heaven forbid, buying _groceries_ , and everything in his fridge right now is baby-friendly.  
  
Cook drops his head back onto the couch with a groan. Jesus Christ, he never thought he'd be this guy. The guy who becomes everyone's worst nightmare just because he's finally developed a baby bump.  
  
Archie's fretting a lot more these days, too, just watching him, which makes Cook feel worse (because fuck, he's not the only one trapped here, not the only one losing time and money and probably half his fucking fan base while he mopes in nine months of utter agony).  
  
Cook takes another long, morose swig of his root beer.  
  
Then he has to put the glass down and high-tail it to the bathroom as the baby rebels and decides to take even faux-beer away from him.  
  
  
  
In light of all that, Cook is pretty sure the baby shower is Archie's not-so-subtle way of waving the white flag. And it's not like he doesn't know how much effort Archie's put into the whole thing - the non-stop phone calls, the secretive online purchases, he's heard it all - so he wants to be appreciative, but--  
  
"Look, Arch, I'm sure it's gonna be an awesome party, but is the blindfold seriously necessary?"  
  
"Yes!" Archie says, batting Cook's hands away. "It seriously is, so stop messing with it! _Cook_! Oh my gosh, just - stand still! I'll take it off."  
  
"Okay, okay, _jeez_ ," Cook laughs, and drops his hands. "I hope that's not how you're going to talk to the baby once--oh my god."  
  
Andy grins at him, one arm slung over Neal's shoulder. "Surprise?"  
  
"You should see your face," Michael snorts, as he hops off the makeshift stage, where he'd been setting up the amps, the mics, the instruments. Jason, Syesha, Brooke and Carly trail behind him. They're all wearing identical shit-eating grins, and Cook wants to kiss every single one of them.  
  
"Oh my god," he repeats.  
  
"Come on, Cook," Carly says, smirking. "Did you really think you were getting a baby shower?"  
  
"Not that we can't have one later," Brooke adds, almost concerned. "If that's what you want."  
  
Cook chokes on a laugh as he swipes a hand across his face ("Oh God," Neal groans. "You can't be fucking serious."), then rounds on Archie, shaking his head in total disbelief as Archie _beams_ at him. "Arch--"  
  
"Don't you get all lovey-dovey on me now, Cook," Michael interrupts, stepping in and grabbing hold of Cook's arm before herding him towards the stage. "Can we get the fucking music started already?"  
  
  
  
It's the best set Cook's played in his life.  
  
  
  
They're all a little drunk on adrenaline when they finally wrap things up, and turn their attention to talking about baby names. Technically, the girls start talking about baby clothes, and matching wallpaper, and Mozart, and Bach, and what awesome aunts they're all going to be, but Cook's stuck in the middle of Michael, Jason and Andy, who are arguing the merits of "Michael", "Jason", and "Andy", respectively. (Neal's long gone, in search of "a party with actual fucking booze".)  
  
Yeah, that's something Cook doesn't see that coming at all.  
  
"It could be a girl, you know," he says, eventually, from where he's slouched in his seat.  
  
Michael looks up from the heated debate, clearly outraged. "Blasphemer!"  
  
Cook chucks a handful of peanuts at him. "Hey man, the baby can hear you now. Don't give my kid a complex."  
  
Michael snorts. "Christ, mate, you're becoming paranoid." He waves a hand in Archie's general vicinity. "You don't mind, do you, Arch!"  
  
"Oh, um," Archie says, weakly, glancing over at them from behind the laptop, where he's been Skyping Kyle. "I - I'm going to go get everyone more root beer?"  
  
Cook smacks Michael upside the head as he pushes to his feet and follows Archie out into the kitchen, watches him as he potters around collecting clean glasses with no real intent.  
  
Cook allows a small, small smile. "You're freaking out, aren't you?"  
  
Archie looks over at him, kind of helplessly, and holds out his hands. "Um," he says. "Yes?"  
  
"Hey guys," Cook calls, over his shoulder, without breaking eye contact. "The pregnant man's turning in for the night."  
  
"Seriously?" Michael demands. "It's fucking nine o'clock, Cook!"  
  
"Pack it up!" Cook shouts back. "We're burning twilight here!"  
  
  
  
"You didn't have to do that," Archie says, later, as they sort out the mess in the den.  
  
"No," Cook says. "I did." He huffs out a sound, more exhale than laugh. "You didn't have to do _this_. How -- you _did_ this, Arch."  
  
"Aww," Archie says, ducking his head. "It's not a big deal, Cook. They were all totally happy to help; I just had to, whatever, make a few calls."  
  
There's confetti caught in Archie's hair, the result of a party souvenir gone wrong, and Archie looks up as Cook reaches to brush it away. His eyes are warm, his smile even warmer, and when he reaches to cover the hand resting on Cook's stomach (and - when did that become a reflex?), his skin is warmer still.  
  
Cook hopes suddenly, fiercely, that their baby (their _baby_ ) inherits that.  
  
"Why'd you stop?" Archie says, then, abruptly. "Calling me. One day we were talking, and then -- we weren't."  
  
There's something in Archie's voice that Cook can't pinpoint, something that makes him pull away, shrug it off. "Oh, that's nice, Archuleta," he deadpans. "Pin it on me. Like picking up your cell phone and punching in a couple of numbers would've been so much harder for you."  
  
Archie laughs at that, a little, and Cook can't tell if he means it, but it's close enough, and his body fills with this slow spreading heat, like molten lava.  
  
He shakes the feeling off.  
  
"Are we done here?" he asks, and jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom when Archie nods. "You up for re-watching M*A*S*H?"  
  
  
  
One new text message.  
  
 _Pain in the ass:  
michael's full of shit. i vote andrew if it's a boy. or a girl._  
  
  
  
The thing about pregnancy, Cook's starting to realize, is that it's never really over when you think it is. Just as he'd gotten over the nausea, there'd been insomnia. Then, when he'd passed that, the depression had sunken in. And when he'd passed _that_ , it'd been back to the nausea. And now? Now he's moved on to sudden cravings.  
  
Sudden _weird_ cravings (fries dipped in broccoli and honey mustard, grilled cheddar on Twix, pickle juice and ketchup -- it is not a pretty fucking picture) that hit him in the middle of the night, force him awake, and demand to be quenched.  
  
The only silver lining is that Archie's usually right there with him, still up, and more than happy to bring him food.  
  
Cook's a little confused by this, at first, but it's not like he's about to question his luck, and eventually it just becomes another item on the long list of things that make Archie an amazing roommate.  
  
Then he wakes up one night (craving fried mozzarella sticks) and finds Archie still up, which isn't unusual, and humming lullabies under his breath, which is. He has one warm palm tucked against the base of Cook's stomach, and he punctuates his sentences with quiet laughs and murmured 'I love you's.  
  
Cook doesn't know how long he watches him, only that he feels his throat close up and his eyes start to sting before Archie realizes he's awake. "Oh," Archie says, sheepishly, and pulls away. "Sorry, I was just--"  
  
"Talking to the baby?" Cook offers, as he scrubs a quick hand over his face. "How - when did you start--"  
  
"Um," Archie says, and rubs the back of his neck embarrassedly. "Every night? Since M*A*S*H?"  
  
Cook lets out a watery laugh, then, and Archie starts to stand, starts to say, "Are you hungry? I could--"  
  
Cook doesn't even let him finish before he's yanking him back in, crushing their mouths together like he wants - like they're back at the Grammys and it's been five fucking _years_ since they've been in the same place at the same time; like he's seeing Archie for the first time all over again, recognizing the curve of his jaw, the light in his eyes, that _laugh_ ; like the world's going to end tomorrow and all they have is _this_ and _now_ and _oh god, Archie, please_.  
  
It's Archie's voice that jolts him back again.  
  
"Cook?" he says, sounding completely bewildered, and Cook jerks back like he's been burned.  
  
" _Archie_ ," he says, and oh, fuck, he sounds breathless, _feels_ breathless, Jesus, what is he even -- how is he supposed to -- his stomach is in knots, and for once, he can't tell if it's the baby, or nerves, or something else entirely. "Sorry," he manages, eventually, and tears his eyes from Archie's lips, still wet and bruised and parted like an invitation. "Sorry, I don't - I'm seriously messed up right now, fucking estrogen, and - I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."  
  
He looks up, then, hesitantly, and almost misses the strange expression that crosses Archie's face. It's gone as quickly as it comes, though, and Archie waves a hand between them, awkward but dismissive. "It's okay," he says. "I'm just gonna go make you some soup and let you work on the whole, um, the hormones thing."  
  
"Yeah," Cook says. "That sounds like a plan."  
  
He buries his face in a pillow as soon as Archie disappears from the room.  
  
Fucking _fuck_.  
  
  
  
Thankfully, it doesn't take long for them to shake the weirdness of the night off, chalk it up to one of those crazy things pregnant men do, and there are no repeat performances in the two weeks leading up to Cook's seventh month mark, which is when Archie signs them both up for childbirth classes.  
  
("You know I can't _actually_ give birth, right?" Cook says, when he sees the class schedule.  
  
"The website said it was a good way to meet other like-minded parents in a safe enviro--oh my gosh, stop _laughing_! I'm serious, Cook! It's something to do!")  
  
The mood swings start to get worse, too, but Archie insists they're normal, and he puts up with them with all the patience of a saint, and makes Cook laugh, and rubs Cook's feet when they start to bloat, and doesn't say anything when Cook curls up against him, just sort of pets Cook's hair, a little, and shifts over so Cook can lie in his lap and stretch his legs out fully onto the couch.  
  
They talk about music when that happens, or kindergartens, or their families, or their experiences growing up, or what they want for the baby--  
  
They're discussing food preferences one day, when Cook says, "You stopped picking up."  
  
Archie doesn't even falter at the non-sequitur, doesn't pretend he doesn't know which conversation they're having. "Oh," he says. "I was--" He stops as abruptly as Cook started. _Scared,_ his face finishes, for him. _Confused_. "Busy. Um. Sorry?"  
  
"No," Cook says, and Archie doesn't seem surprised by the response, or the way Cook adds, "I didn't mean -- I just wish we'd kept talking."  
  
Archie smiles a little, almost wistfully, as he tucks his hand against Cook's belly, and murmurs, "Me too."  
  
  
  
Unfortunately, with the mood swings, there are two bad days for every good day, and Cook tends to spend those days either cooped up in his studio, throwing out song after song, or picking fights with Archie that leave a bitter taste in his mouth for hours afterwards.  
  
Mostly, Archie knows how to deal with it, has become an expert on all things Cook - facial tics and pet peeves and all - but there are days he comes into the bedroom looking exhausted, mouth pulled tight and eyebrows furrowed, and it's one of those days when Cook makes the mistake of saying, "Seriously? _You're_ tired?"  
  
(because he's thrown up four times that day, in the span of an hour, and the baby's been kicking all afternoon, and he's been trying to read up on what to do during induced labor despite the headache that's been building between his eyes, and when he'd gotten out of bed he'd realized he couldn't see his fucking _feet_ , Jesus, no wonder none of his shirts fit anymore, and no one else should have the right to be tired after the day he's just had)  
  
And Archie says, "Can you let me - I just need quiet right now, Cook, can you - just, can the tantrum wait?"  
  
Cook is floored. " _Tantrum_?" he demands. "I'm not -- _tantrum_?"  
  
Archie pinches the bridge of his nose, and draws a deep breath.  
  
Cook lets out a sharp noise of disbelief. "Don't you fucking count to ten, Archuleta! What the hell is tantrum supposed to mean?"  
  
"I'm going to sleep in the guestroom tonight," Archie says eventually, voice even but firm, and leaves Cook staring as he (gently, of course, motherfucker) closes the door to the room behind him.  
  
  
  
The baby stays up all night, kicking him.  
  
  
  
Cook gives up his last-ditch attempts to sleep at eight the next morning, gives up on putting off the inevitable, too, and walks out of his bedroom with no clue of what to expect.  
  
He hears movement in the kitchen, then Archie's voice, low and sweet, "Okay, so I should - um, two spoons? Tablespoons? And honey? Awesome."  
  
When he rounds the corner, he sees Archie at the stove, making (what smells like) his mom's chicken soup. His cell phone is wedged between his ear and his shoulder, and he's stirring the pot with one hand, and working on his laptop with the other. Cook has to bite back a smile.  
  
"No, no," he's saying, "We're totally okay, Beth. I'm great, but he's been kind of moody lately, I guess? And we got into a fight yesterday so he probably didn't sleep well, and--yeah. Yeah, no, I know, I totally am. Yeah."  
  
It's not like Cook doesn't know that these phone calls have been going on for a while now; he just doesn't get to see them much. They tend to talk when he's not around, because Archie thinks it might be weird, the same way he doesn't like being in the room when Jeff calls Cook to check in on the baby.  
  
"Pictures?" Archie's saying, when Cook starts paying attention again. "Didn't I just send you some last week? Hang on, I think I have some more from, um, from the other night. Yeah, okay, um--yeah, there they are. Yeah, okay, I'm emailing you right now."  
  
Archie laughs, then, says, "Okay, Beth. Yeah, I love you too. Okay. Bye," and Cook feels his chest clench up, hard.  
  
Fucking heartburn.  
  
  
  
One new text message.  
  
 _Pain in the ass:  
jesus christ, you're huge. what the hell are you feeding that baby?_  
  
  
  
And yeah, Cook may be ballooning, but so are the rest of the parents in his class, so it's not like he stands out. In fact, him and Archie complete the course as per normal, totally on time, and they graduate fully qualified to be parents, and walk out of the last class with their certificate of participation in hand.  
  
Cook can't wipe the fucking grin off his face.  
  
Of course, that's when everything goes to shit.  
  
  
  
Cook's publicist, Leah, shows up with the article three days after their last class.  
  
The picture is a little fuzzy, but it's definitely them, hand-in-hand in the parking lot, the sign in the background big enough that 'birth center' is obvious despite the pixelation. One of Cook's hands is on his stomach, and, despite the way his head is ducked, there's no missing his smile. Or the fact that his other hand is curled in Archie's.  
  
The headline is splashed above the photograph in garish neon yellow: "David Cook Preggers?"  
  
Archie pales, even as Cook balls up the article and hurls it across the room.  
  
"Fuck," Cook snarls. Slams a fist on the table. "Those motherfucking _bastards_ \--"  
  
"Cook," Archie says, putting a hand on his arm. "Don't - it's okay. If things get out of hand, I - we can just, we can lay low until everything blows over, and--"  
  
"Maybe you should think about moving out," Leah says, quietly. "Just until we can assess the damage."  
  
Cook clenches his jaw.  
  
"Please," Archie says. "Cook."  
  
"It would only be temporary," Leah says.  
  
"Shut up," Cook snaps, and she looks down at her clipboard as he turns to Archie and grips his shoulders, presses their foreheads together and wills his heart to slow.  
  
Then Archie puts a hand on his stomach, and Cook's composure shatters.  
  
"I don't want--" he says, breath, voice, pulse, all hitching on the same note in some slow, spiraling harmony. "Archie, I--"  
  
"I'll call," Archie says, just as quietly. "And it won't be - if you need -- I'm, I won't be gone long."  
  
It sounds a lot like _for the baby; you need to let this happen for the baby_.  
  
Cook’s heart stutters in his chest. "Okay," he croaks, and hopes Archie hears the _come back to me_ that's stuck in his throat, aching to be said.  
  
  
  
It took Archie almost twelve days to move in.  
  
It only takes two to move him out.  
  
It just doesn't seem right.  
  
  
  
The insomnia comes back with a vengeance, once Archie's gone.  
  
Cook's life fucking _sucks_.  
  
If he thought he was miserable before, he's sunk to a whole new level of depression post-Archie's departure.  
  
It's stupid, because Archie calls every night, and he sends emails about cribs he's seen, or neutral baby colors, and _we should go shopping for diapers and milk and stuff probably, haha. :)_  
  
But it's just not the same thing.  
  
His mom calls about a week in.  
  
"Your brother's worried about you," she says, by way of greeting. "He thought I should call."  
  
Cook sighs.  
  
"David Roland Cook. Is that any way to talk to your mother?"  
  
"Hi, Mom."  
  
"That barely counts as an improvement."  
  
He huffs out a laugh at that, muttering an apology, and her voice softens, a little. "How're you holding up?"  
  
"Just peachy," Cook says, dryly. "My baby's due in two weeks, I'm a whale, and Archie just left me."  
  
"Very funny," his mom chides. Then, "Are you two still talking? You and Archie?"  
  
Cook swallows, skates his fingers over the curve of his belly. "Yeah," he says, and hates how it makes him sound like the crazy, clingy girlfriend. "Every night."  
  
"Good," his mom says. "That's good."  
  
There's a longer pause, then, and when his mom continues she sounds almost hesitant. "I've been talking to Lupe," she says. "Her and Archie, they're very close."  
  
"I know," Cook says, frowning. "So are we, mom. Why are you--"  
  
"I just want you to think about what you want, David," she interrupts, gently. "Where you see all this going. I know Archie, and Lupe talks about him all the time, and you're about to be a parent now, Dave, you know how much we want to keep our boys safe."  
  
"Mom," Cook says, voice rising, because what the hell-- "Is Archie okay?"  
  
"He's in love with you," she says. "He's been in love with you for a long time, honey."  
  
  
  
Of course, that's when he goes and gets stuck on the toilet bowl.  
  
Not that he does it on purpose, or anything.  
  
Just - that's the only thing Cook hears for the rest of the week, over and over, playing in his head like some kind of fucked up propaganda, and he isn't paying attention to what he's doing, and it's not until he's trying to heave himself up again, both his hands on the wall, clawing at moisture-slick tiles, that he realizes he's _stuck_.  
  
He's motherfucking _stuck_. On the toilet.  
  
"Oh my god," he groans, still scrabbling for purchase on walls that won't cooperate. "Oh, god, you cannot be serious. Archie? I could use a little help in here!"  
  
There's no response, and Cook feels his heart jerk.  
  
He clenches his jaw, then, counts to three in his head and _yanks_.  
  
He stays right where he is.  
  
"Fuck," he groans, dropping his head. "Fucking, fucking _fuck_."  
  
That's when he lets himself break down, just puts his head in his hands and _sobs_.  
  
It's almost hysterical.  
  
It takes a couple of minutes for him to stop hyperventilating, and then he's fumbling for his cell phone (thank god for Archie insisting he always have it with him), punching Archie's number in despite the way his hands are shaking, and--  
  
He's sent to fucking _voicemail_.  
  
"Fuck," Cook swears. "Fuck, I can't believe I'm going to do this over voicemail, Jesus, where _are_ you? Look, Arch, I'm - it doesn't even matter anymore, okay, it's just -- I'm fucking miserable without you, and it's not the goddamn hormones, it's - I don't even know why we're spending all this time apart, and it's driving me _crazy_ , okay? I am actually going crazy! I just - I don't care if the paparazzi know, I don't care if the entire _world_ knows! Jesus. It's not like I'm going to be able to go back on tour anytime soon, and I'm having your _baby_ , fuck, that means more than any of it, _all of it_ and--I'm having this epiphany while I'm stuck on the fucking toilet, but I love you too, you _idiot_ , if you'd just _told me_ \--"  
  
"Cook?" Archie says, suddenly, and Cook almost drops the phone when he startles. "I was out running, oh my gosh, I'm so sorry - what--"  
  
"Come home," Cook says, doesn't even care that he's practically weeping as relief and affection war for dominance. "Just come home, Arch, _please_."  
  
" _Cook_ ," Archie breathes, and then, "I'll be there in an hour."  
  
He is.  
  
And they start leaving the toilet seat down, after that.  
  
  
  
One new text message.  
  
 _Pain in the ass:  
YOU NEED TO TELL ME ANDY WASN'T MAKING THAT SHIT UP. BECAUSE I NEED TO START COLLECTING MATERIAL TO TELL YOUR UNBORN KID._  
  
  
  
It's October 18 when they wheel Cook into the OR.  
  
"Ready?" Dr. Harless asks, and even with her surgical mask strapped on, Cook can tell she's smiling.  
  
"What happens if I say no?" he says, and she laughs, like he's made some kind of joke.  
  
"It's gonna be okay," Archie murmurs, as he strokes the back of Cook's hand, where it's resting on Cook's belly. "It'll be over before you know it."  
  
"Yeah," Cook grumbles, "That's easy for you to say."  
  
Archie just grins at him, and Cook's scowl deepens. "You can smile all you want, but just so we're clear, I'm never having sex again."  
  
Archie's laugh sounds like it comes from far, far away.  
  
And then the world goes dark.  
  
  
  
His mom is the first person he sees, when he comes to, Andrew right behind her. "Hey, honey," she murmurs, as she strokes his hair back, with a smile that seems to stretch on forever. "Welcome back."  
  
"It was a legitimate cause for morphine," Cook wants to tell her, but he's distracted by the dull ache in his stomach he doesn't recognize, and panic flares in his chest when he realizes, suddenly, that the weight in his belly - the _baby_ \- it's gone.  
  
"Where's my--" he tries to say, feels his world capsize when he hears nothing but a litany of garbled syllables. "Arch?" he tries, instead, and then Archie's there, same eyes, same smile, a bundle in his arms, and Cook's heart seizes as the bundle morphs into seven pounds of perfect baby girl.  
  
"She's fine," Archie murmurs, and puts her in Cook's arms.  
  
Cook traps a sob in his throat, and, without his consent, his heart gives itself away.  
  
"She's a miracle," he whispers. And when he looks down at her, her sleepy hazel eyes and her tiny, tiny hands, he knows it was worth it, every second, all of it.  
  
"I think she needs a brother maybe?" Archie murmurs, running a gentle finger over her forehead.  
  
She yawns, then, raises a flailing hand above her head, and Cook wants to laugh at the similarity. Feels another sob well up in his chest instead.  
  
"Yeah," he agrees, hoarsely, and thinks _milestone, definitely milestone_ , as he leans into Archie's side. "As long as you're okay with carrying it."  
  
  
  
(Naturally, Cook winds up carrying three of their four kids.  
  
Jesus Christ, he's never losing all that weight.)


End file.
